


Yule Ball

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Ficlet, First Kiss, Yule Ball, from tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:17:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: Fairy lights wink on and off in the trees, and the murmur of string music and soft voices and the low rumble of noise spilling out from the open doors to the ballroom fills the cool air.





	Yule Ball

Fairy lights wink on and off in the trees, and the murmur of string music and soft voices and the low rumble of noise spilling out from the open doors to the ballroom fills the cool air. Hermione ducks past kissing couples, averting her eyes, and finds a semi-secluded bench. She sits down and buries her face in her hands. Ron’s angry words echo in her head. Victor is probably looking for her, but she’s not sure she can manage any more dancing. She can feel the imprint of his big hands at her waist, hesitant and a little clumsy. She can’t pretend she’d never had fantasies about someone falling in love with her in the library, impressed by her dedication, although in those daydreams he’d been some visiting scholar who would want to discuss magical theory and justice for house-elves over candlelight, not an international Quidditch player with burly arms. Absurd to complain about that, she thinks. She squeezes back a tear. Damn Ron Weasley.

“Your men are very stupid,” announces a melodic yet waspish voice from beside her. Fleur Delacour sits down without preamble on the bench next to Hermione, casting a derisive glare at the chipped white paint as she arranges herself with slightly less delicacy than usual. “Your Roger Davies, ’e can do nothing but stare at me with those goggle eyes as I insult ’is school and ’is friends. I told ’im Quidditch was nothing but a sport for oafs with no control over a broom and ’e nodded and watched me flip my ’air.” 

Hermione blinks. She is not sure Fleur even knows who she is.

“You have run away from Victor, I see,” says Fleur. “I think ’e is less stupid than the rest, but ’ardly a dazzling conversationalist.”

Speechless, Hermione looks at Fleur: her silvery hair, her fine-boned face, the scornful cast of her eyes. Stuck-up and full of herself, Hermione had thought. It had never occurred to her that someone might cultivate that impression as a kind of defense. Watching Fleur’s beautiful lips purse, Hermione feels a tug, as if something is pulling at her mind, wanting to rearrange it. 

“Do you know who I am?” she surprises herself by asking bluntly.

Fleur’s eyebrows raise. “Hermione Granger,” she says, and unlike Krum her pronunciation is flawless, aside from the accent. “You are ’arry Potter’s best friend. The—’ow do you say?—bookworm. I ’ave noticed you.”

Hermione swallows, feeling unaccountably flushed. First Krum, now Fleur? She has always thought of herself as inconspicuous. If she’s being honest, that’s what makes her raise her hand so often in class. Until she speaks or writes, no one has any idea that she is more than just a head of bushy hair. 

“ _You_ are not stupid,” Fleur continues. “Unfashionable and slightly shrill, but not stupid.”

Hermione laughs. For the first time that night, she feels an easy smile break out across her face. “Thanks,” she says. “That’s kind of you.”

“Oh, I am not kind,” Fleur says, smiling back at Hermione, surprised and pleased. “If I were kind _and_ part-veela men would walk all over me.”

 _Men_. Fleur is only a few years older than Hermione, but she speaks like an adult. Hermione feels suddenly shrunk, inadequate. Her pale blue dress robes and carefully straightened hair, which seemed so lovely and grown-up a few hours ago, now make her feel as if she’s playing dress-up.

“Do not slump like that,” Fleur instructs, frowning. “Sit up straight. You are collapsing in on yourself. ’ere.” She places her hands on Hermione’s shoulders and pushes them gently back. “I don’t think you need to be told that physical beauty is not an adequate measure of someone’s worth,” Fleur says, smoothing back an escaped curl of Hermione’s hair, “but perhaps you do need to be told that you are quite pretty.”

The moment Fleur’s delicate fingers settle on Hermione’s shoulders, Hermione is stunned into silent compliance. Fleur touches her hair and something jumps in Hermione’s stomach, sharp, frightening, wholly new.

“I’m not pretty,” she says in a daze. 

“Nonsense,” Fleur says briskly. Then she puts her hand on Hermione’s cheek, not briskly, and surveys her with an oddly adult mix of criticism and compassion in her grey eyes. “Have you ever been kissed?” 

Hermione shakes her head.

“I find it does wonders for one’s self-confidence. Victor will probably kiss you tonight, if you let ’im. But my friend Hélène told me ’e is not very good at it.” Fleur’s hand is still on Hermione’s cheek, warm in the cool night air. “Let me, instead.”

Hermione stares. The sharp thing in her stomach sharpens further. Her head is buzzing, for once empty of coherent thought. Fleur leans in, giving her plenty of time to pull away. Hermione can smell her perfume, faint and floral. She hovers, a breath from Hermione’s lips, waiting, and Hermione tips her head ever so slightly forward.

And then they are kissing. Fleur’s lips are impossibly smooth and soft. They linger gently on Hermione’s, undemanding, slow. Hermione’s whole body flushes with warmth, from her toes to the crown of her head.

“There,” Fleur says, and pulls back. “You see? You are neither stupid nor ugly.”

As Fleur stands to go, Hermione manages to say, “Just unfashionable and slightly shrill.” 

Fleur laughs, a silvery sound like chiming bells. “Yes. And only sometimes.”


End file.
